“Loped off!” ejaculated the burly man. “Damn my blood if I ever deal with a flash cull again!” With which cryptic remark he drove his fist into his hat, and sat glowering.
The Viscount looked at him with interest. “What do you want with him, hey? Who are you?”
“That’s my business,” retorted the burly man. “Twenty rum guineas, that’s what I wants, and that’s what I’ll get if I stays here till tomorrow.”
Captain Heron spoke, addressing himself to the butler. “Our business with his lordship is urgent—can you inform us of his direction?”
“His lordship,” said the butler stiffly, “left no word, sir. Indeed, I wish that I were aware of his destination, for this—this person, sir, insists upon staying until his return, though I have warned him I shall send for a constable.”
“You don’t dare send for no harman,” said the burly man scornfully. “I knows what I know, ah, and I knows who’ll sleep in Rumbo if I splits.”
Sir Roland, who had been listening intently to this speech, shook his head. “Y’know, I don’t follow what he says at all,” he remarked. “Rumbo? Never heard of the place.”
“The likes of you calls it Newgate,” explained the burly man. “I calls it Rumbo. See?”
The Viscount looked at him frowningly. “I’ve a notion I’ve met you before,” he said. “I don’t know your face, but damme, I do know your voice!”
“Might have been masked,” suggested Sir Roland helpfully.